Lebeau reappeared in answer to her warning of danger. Too late! Some one was mounting the stairs, advancing with rapid step, and when at last the flare of the conflagration fell upon his features through the open doorway Esther and Lebeau recognized Lord Mowbray.

The first thought that presented itself to the girl's mind was that she had been betrayed.

"Oh!" she cried, bending upon Lebeau a glance of despair and hatred, "you have ruined me!"

This fresh shock proved too much for her endurance. Exhausted with emotion, she fell, striking her head upon the foot of the bed, and lay there motionless upon the floor. Lebeau sprang to her, raised her in his arms, and placed her gently upon the bed; then he bent above her pallid face.

"Swooned!" he murmured, as if speaking to himself.

With folded arms Lord Mowbray watched him, following every movement with an ironical smile.

"Master Lebeau!" he said, breaking the silence.

"My lord?" answered Lebeau, turning and facing him, pale but resolute.

"Do you still deny that you have played me false?"

"More than ever do I affirm that I have served your lordship faithfully."

"By thwarting my plans and robbing me of this girl?"

"By robbing you of this girl, yes. It was my duty."

"Your duty? That is the first time I have ever heard the word upon your lips."

"That was my fault. After all, my lord, perhaps there is a G.o.d."

"You should have sooner told me so. If you are converted, go join the hypocrites of your ilk, and leave me. This deserted place, this night of conflagration and slaughter, this unconscious girl,--all suits me well.

I have a fancy for adventure which has no vulgar tang about it."

Standing between the bed where Esther lay and young Mowbray, Lebeau did not move.

"Excuse me, my lord," he said steadily, "it is you who are to leave. You will not lay a finger upon this child."

"Why not?"

"Because I forbid you."

"And pray why do you forbid me?"

"_Because she is my daughter and your sister!_"

For an instant Mowbray stood transfixed with amazement; then he burst into a laugh.

"By my soul!" he exclaimed, "my father was right: you are the most amusing rascal in the world! Long live Lebeau! No human being but you could have conceived such an idea. The day that my father awoke in the bottom of that monster pie, the surprise was good, but it cannot hold a candle to this one! After this night's affair no one can ever say that you are degenerating; for your imagination, my dear man, was never so brilliant. Ask me a hundred pounds, or twice that amount; I will refuse you nothing. But go away now and let the farce end. I have enough of it."

"I shall not go, and this is no farce. I repeat, Esther Woodville is your sister."

The young man smiled disdainfully.

"Would you have me believe that Lady Mowbray--"

"Lady Mowbray was a saint! May she hear and pardon me!"

"Amen!"

"Mock if you will, for you will not mock long. Lady Mowbray had nothing whatever to do with this affair; moreover, Lady Mowbray was a stranger to your birth, sir!"

This time the young n.o.bleman recoiled in rage.

"Listen to me," said Lebeau authoritatively.

Esther was beginning to recover a vague consciousness. Athwart the shadows of her swoon thought began to rea.s.sert itself, though doubtful, timid, misty. Stretched upon the bed, incapable of movement, her eyes closed, she heard voices without comprehending what they said, without distinguishing the sense of what was spoken.

"Twenty-three years ago," continued Lebeau, "two women were _enceintes_ at the same time, the wife and the mistress of Lord Mowbray, one at his residence in St. James's, the other in a chamber of his 'Folly' at Chelsea. The latter was the daughter of a London shop-keeper, whom Lord Mowbray had abducted from her family, and had concealed as his prisoner.

It was Fate's decree that his lordship should be made a father twice in one and the same night. He called my attention to your vigor and vitality when you came into the world. 'Look, Lebeau,' he said to me, 'it is a genuine love-child. See how strong he is, while the other--'

Then a thought occurred to him: why not subst.i.tute the illegitimate for the legitimate child? He hated his wife as he hated all things good and pure. The thought of rearing the child of a rival charmed him, and he considered me worthy to execute the change. It was I who bribed the young n.o.bleman's nurse and placed you in his cradle. When your mother's health was re-established Lord Mowbray washed his hands of her and the child whom she believed hers. It was enough for him that the child should be dispossessed of his fortune and t.i.tle; he desired that he should be wretched, deprived of everything. He knew that the family of his mistress, inflexible as they were in principles, would close their doors upon the fallen girl and her child. At rest upon this point, he forbade me to give the sufferers aid, and I disobeyed him."

"That was the beginning of virtue!"

"No, sir. I found her beautiful and provided for her. In my turn she made me a father, but I treated her as though I were a grand gentleman.

I sank to the infamous level of Lord Mowbray. I exposed her to all the hazards and misery of a wandering life. She became an actress and travelled from country town to country town, with a troop of mediocre actors, dragging Lady Mowbray's son along with her, the child whose position and name you had usurped. She died--almost starving!"

Lebeau p.r.o.nounced these final words in a harsh tone of profound woe, upon which slowly acc.u.mulated remorse had set the tinge of indescribable bitterness.

"My daughter," he continued after a pause, "I saved from this cruel existence, provided for her education, and placed her in the home of honest folk."

"And the other,--the vagabond, my pretended brother?"

Beneath Mowbray's apparent irony Lebeau detected his anxiety.

"His life has been hard, frightfully hard, sir; until the age of ten years so cruel was it that the recital of his sufferings would touch any other heart than yours. From one adventure to another he at last fell into the hands of the Thames pirates, who made a little thief of him, and reared him for a life of shame and crime."

"Very much as you reared me."

"It is true. I merit the reproach and accept it; but while your evil instincts grew apace, the germ of good developed in your brother. He fled from those who had marked him for wrong-doing, and was received by upright persons.--Ah, you would like to know if he still lives? Do you think me fool enough to deliver him over to your jealousy and suspicions? No. You now know enough of this business to understand that you ought not to remain here an instant longer."

"I have listened to you even unto the end with a patience that astonishes me. It would appear from this recital that I am under nameless obligation to you, your _protege_, your creature. As the king reigns by the grace of G.o.d, I am a n.o.bleman by permission of Mons.

Lebeau, and if I cease to merit his good opinion, I lose everything!

Well," he added, suddenly changing his tone, "I do not care to know how much truth there is in your story, but I do know that this situation is no longer tenable. No such man as I am ought to be at the mercy of a Lebeau, hanging upon his discretion. The surest means of my a.s.suring myself of your silence is to kill you! And kill you I will!"

Saying these words, he whipped out his sword and darted upon his former tutor.

Esther uttered a feeble cry, but the cry was lost in a frightful crash.

A neighboring wall, undermined by the fire, reeled and fell, striking upon the roof of the house. A rafter in falling struck the window and shattered it. A dense, stifling smoke, starred with a myriad sparks, filled the chamber.

Meanwhile Lebeau, who had never for an instant lost sight of Mowbray's movements, had darted backward a pace or two, thus placing a table between himself and his adversary, at the same time drawing his sword in his turn. Now they were equally matched. It was he who had first placed a fencing-foil in the young man's hand, he who had taught him with infinite patience all the secrets of the French and Italian schools of fencing. In those very schools had they studied the n.o.ble art in company, not disdaining the lessons of resident masters. They had fenced together every day for ten years, but had never succeeded in scratching each other, so easy was it for either to parry the thrusts of the other and to divine his intentions. However, it was necessary that one of these two men, who had lived so long together as master and disciple, almost as father and son, should take the other's life; and each bore written upon his very eyes the fierce desire, the implacable longing, to kill.

It was not a duel, but a combat. Shifting their footing, retreating precipitately or lunging unexpectedly, profiting by every obstacle, bending forward until they almost squatted upon the ground, or bounding into the air, every few moments they would desist, watching each other, panting, bathed in perspiration, their features rigid as if petrified with the same mortal intent. The furniture lay about them upset and broken, and all the while the smoke continued to thicken. It grew suffocating and darkened the chamber, recently so bright, while at the same time it altered the character of the combat, which threatened to become a blind struggle in the dark. Not a word was exchanged; nothing was audible but the stifled oaths, the short, harsh breathing that rattled in the throat, the hissing of the crossed swords, that metallic sound which freezes the marrow in the bones like a death-knell. In the adjoining chamber old Maud chanted:--